"Lies! Always lies!" said the voice of prudence in his brain.
He tore up the paper and passed the rest of the morning very much preoccupied…. It was his duty to defend himself against this espionage that had even established its base in a port of war…. Every boat anchored near the Mare Nostrum was menaced by Freya's power to give information. Who knew but what her mysterious communications would bring about their attack by a submarine on going out from the roadstead of Brest!…
His first impulse was to denounce her. Then he repented because of his absurd scruples of chivalry…. Besides, he would have to explain his past to the head officers at Brest who knew him very slightly. He was far from that naval captain at Salonica who had so well understood his passional errors.
He wished to watch her for himself, and in the evening he went ashore. He detested Brest as one of the dullest cities of the Atlantic. It was always raining there, and there was no diversion except the eternal promenade through the rue de Siam, or a bored stay in the cafés full of seamen and English and Portuguese land-officers.
He went through the public establishments night and day; he made investigations in the hotels; he hired carriages in order to visit the more picturesque suburbs. For four days he persisted in his inquiries without any result.
He began to doubt Uncle Caragol's veracity. Perhaps he had been drunk on returning to the ship, and had made up such an encounter. But the recollection of that paper written by her discounted such a supposition…. Freya was in Brest.
The cook explained it all simply enough when the captain besieged him with fresh questions.
"The lady-bird must just be passing through. Perhaps she flitted away that same evening…. That meeting was just a chance encounter."
Ferragut had to give up his investigations. The defensive work on the ship was about terminated and the holds contained their cargo of projectiles for the army of the Orient and various unmounted guns. He received his sailing orders, and one gray and rainy morning they lifted anchor and steamed out of the bay of Brest. The fog made even more difficult the passage between the reefs that obstruct this port. They passed before the lugubrious Bay of the Dead, ancient cemetery of sailboats, and continued their navigation toward the south in search of the strait in order to enter the Mediterranean.
Ferragut felt increased pride in examining the new aspect of the Mare Nostrum. The wireless telegraph was going to keep him in contact with the world. He was no longer a merchant captain, slave of destiny, trusting to good luck, and incapable of repelling an attack. The radiographic stations were watching for him the entire length of the coast, advising him of changes in his course that he might avoid the ambushed enemy. The apparatus was constantly hissing and sustaining invisible dialogues. Besides, mounted on the stern was a cannon covered with a canvas hood, ready to begin work.